


space grand(dad)

by silent_h



Series: extended fam [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gender Identity, Genderfluid Character, Intrusive Thoughts, POV Second Person, Prosopagnosia, autistic!doctor bc fight me, somebody please actually ask 13 about her pronouns gdi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 10:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_h/pseuds/silent_h
Summary: in which the doctor and yaz have a much overdue talk about pronouns





	space grand(dad)

**Author's Note:**

> people really liked the mention of yaz and 13 having a pronoun conversation, so i wrote it, i guess

“doctor?”

you jump, banging your head against the underneath of the table. there’s a concerned noise from above-behind you, and soft laughter in your head.

you scowl as you crawl out, nudging the side of the table with your shoulder as you do so. she could’ve warned you?

a slither of _joy-love-song-laughter_ curls into your head; you push a hint of _fond-annoyed-forgiveness_ back.

you have to duck back under for a moment to get the microwave, and you dump it and your handful of tools on the table, before finally looking for the interruption.

one of your new human friends(?) is leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you with raised eyebrows.

so you’re _maybe_ running on not enough sleep and not enough food and the newness of regeneration and the still lingering novelty of your recently renewed connection with the tardis and the myriad of feelings you haven’t quite dealt with from refusing to regenerate; their face hasn’t fixed in your head yet.

a faded echo of _soft-warm-fuzzy_ brushes against you, and oh! yaz! you like yaz.

you’re still not entirely sure why the tardis has designated her(? you think it was her) as _the-fuzzy-one,_ but it’s a very comforting sensation.

ryan, meanwhile, is the need to put your hands very firmly in your pockets, and graham is a phantom rumbling in your stomach.

usually the tardis designates your friends as metaphysical concepts or emotions, and you wonder why she’s gone for more physical tags this time round.

(but then, it is so much easier to hold onto something you can physically feel)

“are you okay?” yaz cautiously sits at the table, eyes flicking down to your mess with a slight frown. she doesn’t ask you why you were under the table, thankfully.

you don’t answer, and she seems to realise that you won’t, which is great.

probably.

there’s always a thin line between people who can understand you when you’re having trouble with verbal communication, and people who can understand you when you _really_ don’t want them to.

you slowly lower yourself into the seat opposite her.

this...is more comfortable.

 _smug-exasperated-satisfied;_ you scowl. whatever. under the table was comfortable too.

(it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t but you’re _trying._ this body’s still new and you’re convinced that if you can convince it that you’re fine with small and confined spaces then maybe it’ll stick)

“um,” yaz says. “i wanted to ask,” and you perk up, because your memories might still be a _tad_ fuzzy but you miss teaching so much it _hurts._ “i wanted to ask if we’re using the right pronouns for you?”

ugh. not teaching. you duck your head back down, picking up a manual screwdriver.

(where did you leave yours again?)

“don’t know or care,” you say, absently. a strand of hair flops into your face and you blow it back out with a huff. maybe you should find something to tie it back with. maybe you could use one of your braces? but could you only walk around with _one_ brace? you stick the screwdriver in your mouth so you can pull them, relishing in the perfect _snaps_ they make as they bounce back to your chest. hm. no. can’t mess with that symmetry. you’ll have to figure something else out.

wait. you left that on a harsh note, didn’t you?

you peek up, and yes, yaz's mouth is turned down at the corners. whoops.

“’m a little busy right now,” you mumble, around the screwdriver, and then you add, “yaz,” so she knows that you are Very Serious about talking to her and also that you are still friends.

did that work?

eyebrows drawn together; confused? no, wait, the other one: doubtful.

doubtful about you? but you _are_ busy. you spit the screwdriver into your palm and then you jab it into an exposed wire.

a flickering shock travels up your arm in response and the microwave makes a Good Noise, a long warbling beep, and the delight bubbles out of you as a laugh. you didn’t even know it could do that! oh, it’s gonna make such a great sound when it explodes.

 _concern-worry-mess-noise-disgruntlement;_ you roll your eyes.

honestly.

explode in someone once and they hold it over you for all eternity.

you try to muster up the feeling of being careful, but uh. well. you’ve never exactly felt that before.

 _sorry_ you send, instead. _lying_ bounces back; you grin.

yaz's eyebrows are still drawn together, but her eyes are...different, and her mouth is open slightly. that’s concern, right? probably?

concerned humans like explanations, yes?

“i’m blowing up the microwave,” you try.

she makes a very distressed sounding noise.

ah. that was Not it.

“ _please don’t do that._ ”

and you Don’t whine because you’re an adult and your friends(?) are still in the phase where they see you as a mysterious entity and mysterious entities do not whine except you already have haven’t you because this body is still so new and you can’t control it and you’re worried you’ll never be able to and you _hate_ this you—

_calm-love-here-safe._

you breathe, slowly. push your thoughts back down.

yaz blinks, before she tilts her head to the side. her eyes look very soft. “do you have to blow _this_ up or do you just need to blow _anything_ up?”

you go very still. you knew this understanding could be a problem.

(you cause destruction everywhere you go everywhere you touch and maybe if you concentrate it down maybe if you localise it to little machines then maybe you won’t hurt anyone else)

you bite back the instinctual impulse to answer (and oh but you _hate_ this body’s allergy to lies) but the feeling still needs to escape somehow; you end up rocking a little instead.

yaz hums. you don’t think that that’s surprise on her face. you don’t think you want to know what it is.

“could you blow that coffee machine up instead?” she points to it across the room.

it was a gift, but you think of yaz's distressed noise (and, you think, guiltily, of ryan’s delight over the microwavable candyfloss he’d found, and the popcorn he’d awkwardly shared with graham). they’ll leave (you know they will you know you know) but that doesn’t mean you should act like they’re not here _now._

“um,” yaz says, when you’re halfway out of your seat. you blink at her. “maybe you should fix this first?”

oh. yeah.

fixing isn’t as fun as dismantling, not when you’re in this sort of mood, but ugh. fine. you sink back into your seat, and pick up the screwdriver again.

(not that you can fix it not that you can fix anything—)

“i just uh,” yaz says, when she realises you’re not going to say anything else, “on the train? when we first met you? we assumed. or uh. i assumed. i guess. and i don’t want to make up your mind for you, you know? i don’t want to like, say you’re a woman and now you think you have to be?”

ugh. humans and their gender.

human language is so _limited_ _,_ and they barely have any tenses and their genders are so confining and they don’t have terms for  _near_ enough of them (what sort of stupid culture would stop at just _two??_ ) and why does it even _matter_ anyway it’s not like they’d be able to understand what you’re saying, not when you have to squish it down into simple human concepts.

yaz clears her throat.

ah. how much of that did you say out loud.

“all of it,” yaz says.

well. saves time, you guess. efficiency is always nice. unless you’re doing something fun, in which case efficiency is Not The Point and can go straight back to whoever invented it.

and yaz doesn’t seem upset. or at least, she seems less annoyed and more contemplative?

you sigh. you’ve always been _not quite a man_ and now you’re _not quite a woman_ and you don’t know how to explain it in a single human term.

“i’m not a woman,” you say finally, not looking up. “not by human measures, anyway. and not a man either. i just,” you frown. “i just _am._ and well, uh. i kinda meant _any_ , by _i don’t care._ ”

you’ve never cared, really. you've always loved the implications of _them_ — the notion that you hold multitudes— and the harsh _z_ of _xem—_ almost, but not quite, like the old gallifreyan pronoun you originally went by— and you were so rarely called _she_ in your other bodies that the newness of it feels refreshing against your skin.

before, you were mostly called _he._

you try it now, imagine yaz or ryan or graham pointing at you, saying _this is the doctor and_ he _is our friend,_ and wow, no. _no._ feels Bad feels Wrong sends something uncomfortable and tight skittering across your chest and you do not like it you do not you do _not_.

yaz's smile dips.

“not _he_ ,” you tell her, and you literally just said _any_ and you’re probably being too harsh again, but yaz just nods, face firm. her lips slowly tick upwards again.

“‘course,” she says. “we won’t use it,” and _oh_ , you know they’ll have to leave, but you already love them.

(they’re better than you deserve, but then, aren’t they all?)

“i know i just already asked you something, and i know that you’re _busy,_ ” something light in her voice; is she teasing? “but i just wondered, uh. since you don’t use he now, would you still use gendered titles you had before? like if someone used to call you uh, uncle, or something, would you be aunt now?”

oh.

would you? you hadn’t thought about this yet, hadn’t needed to. you’ve yet to meet anyone you used to know, or ended up in a place where it mattered.

but. well.

you think of being amy’s raggedy man, of rory’s almost smug smile as he called you son, of martha’s familiar mister, of kate’s fondly exasperated sir, of bill’s teasing granddad, of jenny’s too short dad. of susan.

always, of susan.

you carry them with you.

“no,” you say. “i don’t think i would.”

and yaz nods, something understanding on her face. “thank you,” she says, quietly, “for telling me.”

you hum.

“and for not blowing up the microwave,” she adds, as she stands up, which. fair.

“yaz,” you blurt, and she stops. eyebrow raised, you imagine, but you can’t look up at her. “thanks,” you say. you don’t have the words to say what for.

“i know,” she says.

and you think she does.

**Author's Note:**

> this might be a one off, but if there's anything from the chatfic you want me to actually properly fic out then just ask
> 
> (also yeah, before they refound the tardis, 13 was mostly guessing who was who most of the time. love that disaster)


End file.
